


Chapter xiii

by AvaAdore



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Cowboys, Dropping to your knees in a diner bathroom, M/M, Origami, Road Trip, hazoff - Freeform, zarry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-05
Updated: 2020-12-05
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:35:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,867
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27888385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaAdore/pseuds/AvaAdore
Summary: Chapter xiii of an unfinished fic.Currently @writing-styles on tumblr:)Sorry for the awful Spanish translation 🙈
Relationships: Jeff Azoff/Harry Styles, Zayn Malik/Harry Styles
Kudos: 11





	Chapter xiii

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter xiii of an unfinished fic.  
> Currently @writing-styles on tumblr:)  
> Sorry for the awful Spanish translation 🙈

**_“Whither goest thou, America, in thy shiny car in the night?”_ **

Harry’s playing with a paper napkin, trying to remember the tucks and folds he needs to make an origami swan. He can’t recall who taught him the skill, too many memories from his time on the road that tend to blend into one. Jeff’s left to go to the bathroom, and the bulbs in the diner are burning overhead like they’re set to five-hundred watts. So, Harry’s keeping his head down, he’s a wallflower, no-one of interest or concern. If he doesn’t make eye contact with the diners, then they can’t see him, don’t know him. It’s a nonsense rule, but one that’s got him through a number of anxiety inducing situations in the past. He’s used to the bright lights, but that’s when he’s one of them, one _with_ them. In a Texan diner after midnight, littered with truck drivers and night wranglers, he has no desire to stand out or shine.

Since Harry’s cover of _Rocket Man_ propelled him to superstar status at the age of eighteen, he’s learned a lot of new skills in addition to origami. One of which now has his shoulders twitching and his instinct whispering: _to your right, three o’clock, pretty much due east_. He licks his lips, tries to keep his fingers moving, but the itch at the back of his neck is screaming, _turn around_. He’s struggling with a tuck that when folded just right will make a wing - _they’re still here, they’re still watching_ \- and where the actual fuck is Jeff?

“Need a new one?” someone says, and there’s a guy sitting opposite who _is not_ Jeff, and he’s pushing the napkin dispenser towards Harry with his pinky finger. The guy raises an eyebrow, ignoring the strand of hair that has to be tickling the side of his nose, and there’s a silence that needs to be killed by one of them _talking_.

“It’s a swan,” Harry says, chucking his wingless creation aside. He looks out into the diner for the first time since Jeff left, scanning the room in under twenty seconds. The anxiety he’s feeling is an old friend, and he’s starting to sweat.

“What’s its name?” the guy asks.

“What?” Harry spins his head so fast, he cricks his neck, and the guy is staring with expectation.

“Harry,” a voice says, and Harry’s heart is racing. 

“Jeff! For fuck’s sake, you made me jump!”

Jeff’s hovering by the table, shooting a Darth Vader glare at ‘Zeus’, who’s pushing his chair back, doffing his Stetson and stomping away.

“Who was that?” Jeff asks, scraping his chair with enough impact that Harry can hear the legs squeaking.

“No idea.” Harry says, ignoring the nagging temptation to look _to his right, three o’clock, pretty much due east_. “He sat down. Just before you came back.”

Jeff’s staring due east. “Got talking to a guy from Vegas,” he says, his eyes flicking back to scan Harry’s face. “Reckons he can do us a deal on a penthouse if we wanna go hang there.”

Harry’s sucking at his straw, eyes looking up at Jeff as he slurps on the dregs of his banana cream milkshake. “You wanna go to Vegas?”

Jeff shrugs. “Maybe. Let’s see where the road takes us.” He’s looking at Harry with not so much Darth Vader eyes but Anakin Skywalker on the edge, just before he slaughtered the innocent padawans in their sleep.

“I need a piss,” Harry says, pushing his chair back. Jeff’s staring out the window, it’s black outside. “I’ll be right back.”

***

Harry opens the stall door, thanking the seven lucky Gods he didn’t choose to piss in the trough. Zeus is zipping up his pants, turning and staring.

“I’m sorry,” Zeus drawls, “didn’t mean to intrude back there.” He walks to the sink, pushes the tap, and steps out of the way of the water splash back.

“Not a problem,” Harry mumbles. He needs to get back to Jeff but there’s a guy with Greek god eyes standing in his way, and he doesn’t know if he’s friend or foe. From the cut of his shirt, and the fit of his jeans, there’s a chance he has the body of a Greek god too, and the knowledge does nothing to help his anxiety. His chest is tight, sweat popping like hives on his skin, and his fight or flight response is screaming _run_.

‘You don’t talk much, do you?” Zeus says. He’s within touching distance, and Harry’s trying to work out how long he’s been staring. His jaw feels stiff, has he been gaping?

“I talk,” Harry says. He talks! “You weren’t intruding, you just surprised me.”

“Good.” Zeus is closing the gap with _trouble_ written all over his face. He’s smiling. “Zayn,” he says, holding out his hand.

Harry’s chewing on his lip to suppress the smile that makes him look like an asshole. “Funny name for a cowboy,” he says. What were the odds this guy would have a four-letter Z name? Zayn’s cocking his head, looking at Harry with a Mona Lisa smirk on his Michelangelo face. The guy’s a literal walking work of art.

“So, what should cowboys be called then?” Zayn asks.

Harry doesn’t know any cowboys. “John?” It’s the first name that comes to mind, and he says it out loud to show Zayn that he does talk, he’s talking! And then he follows up with his asshole grin. “Maybe, Wayne?”

Zayn’s laughing, it’s more a shoulder chuckle than a guffaw, and the smolder in his eyes is chestnut honey. He’s licking his lips, the color of Shiraz wine, and there’s a whiff of orange blossom and coconut in the air. Harry’s never eaten ambrosia, but he’s guessing it’s how Zayn would taste. Better than banana cream.

“What about swans with no wings,” Zayn says. “What name would you give one of those?” He’s inching forward, beginning to intrude on Harry’s personal space, and his stare is thunder and lightning, making Harry want to strip his clothes on the spot.

Harry’s only ever fallen to his knees in a diner bathroom once before, and that was from a punch to the gut from a corn farmer in West Kentucky, after he’d stuck his tongue down the farmer’s daughter’s throat in a gas station parking lot. The guy had chased them twenty miles down the i64, and jumped Harry as he was leaving the stall.

“Leda,” Harry says. That’s what the girl was called.

Zayn’s now as close as he can get without backing Harry into the wall. The honey in his eyes has crystallized to sugar, his breath a breeze of mint and heat on Harry’s cheek. “Funny name for a swan,” he whispers.

“Harry?”

“Fuck!” Jeff’s standing in the doorway, wood creaking on its hinges from the force of being pushed open. “Stop doing that!” Harry’s wound up tight enough without Jeff scaring the shit out of him every time he shows up.

“Hasta luego, _patito_.” Zayn’s on the move, leaving.

“Wait!” But Zayn’s brushing past Jeff, who isn’t shifting, isn’t blinking, but Harry can see his lips and they’re moving, mouthing _bye bye_. “What the fuck, Jeff?”

“You were gone ages,” Jeff says. “Came to check you were okay.”

“Yesss,” Harry hisses. I’m ohhhkaaay.” He’s stalking towards Jeff now, can feel the anxiety and frustration, bottled up from the last twenty-four hours, ready to pop and steam out of his ears. He’s up in Jeff’s face. “I was gone,” he holds his palm up, counting out the time on his fingers, “for five fucking minutes!”

“I was trying to be careful, H, or did you forget what happened back at that motel?”

“You know,” Harry’s smiling that smile now because he _wants_ to look like an asshole. “That sometimes, you act more like my mother than my manager.”

“And sometimes,” Jeff squeaks. “You act like a spoiled brat!”

And the thing is, Harry and Jeff know each other too well, and once they start pushing buttons, it becomes a competition, like who can light up all the numbers on the elevator keypad first. And Jeff’s winning this time because Harry wants to fight! But Jeff’s stomping away, the heels of his impulse-bought, faux cowboy boots clip-clopping through the diner, heading out towards the exit.

“Where the fuck are you going?” Harry shouts, no longer caring if every spotlight in the place is on his face, or every face in the place staring his way. He’s wound up like a tightrope, tired of being stretched out and walked all over, and the pent-up frustration in his bones is screaming for release. He scans the room for Zayn, but there’s no cowboy, flirting. He stalks to the counter, chucks down a fifty, and storms outside.

***

Harry’s eyes are searching the parking lot - as much as the light seeping out from the diner will allow - but there’s no-one in sight, no Jeff skulking or sulking in the shadows. He starts walking, head down, hands in his pockets, towards the camper van. As he reaches the door, he sees a light on in the cab and hears the drifting rise and fall of Patsy Cline’s contralto vocal. Jeff can be such a sap sometimes.

Then there’s a whistle, like the breaking of the silence in a Hitchcock horror scene. Harry spins and sees a flicker of fire - someone dragging on a cig - and his night vision zooms in on the figure across the car lot, foot propped up against a truck door. Harry starts walking, can hear the pull and push of smoke, the crackle of burning ash, and the whiff of tobacco hits his face as he jams his body into the Mexican cowboy’s personal space. “You said, goodbye,” he breathes. “I thought you’d gone.” He’s standing as close as they were before being interrupted, no need to start from the beginning, best to pick up where they left off.

“I said, see you later,” Zayn purrs, but it’s more of a rumble.

“You said, _patito_?”

Zayn’s answering smile is like the spread of melting chocolate.

Harry knows he shouldn’t act on impulse, he needs to stay alert, but he’s still vibrating from his row with Jeff. He’s sparking like a plasma ball, counting down to detonation, and if the glass explodes, he can’t be held responsible for the lightning he’ll bring down on any fucker trying to stop him from being _him_.

Zayn lifts his hand, his thumb smoothing the lines between Harry’s eyes, and as a car alarm blares - _wah wah wah wah -_ Harry slams his mouth against Zayn’s, and the only sound he gives a fuck about is the gasping from the cowboy as he struggles to breathe.

“Is this your truck?” Harry croaks as he pulls back, the kiss knocking the wind out of his voice. Zayn’s nodding, eyes shining like candied cherries, and it’s the only invitation Harry needs. He’s hungry, and Zayn isn’t just Mister Sex Appeal, he’s a goddamn five-course gourmet meal. Harry flips the handle on the truck door and climbs in.

Harry’s sitting on the back seat, waiting for Zayn, and his anxiety’s spiking, wondering if he’s misread the guy’s intentions. He’s thinking of shouting out, asking if he’s planning on joining him, when Zayn jumps in. Harry’s night vision is focused, and the outline of Zayn’s profile is all cheekbones and shadows and jaw. The silence between them is full of charge, with the promise of thunder, like that moment just before a storm breaks.

Zayn turns to look at him, wearing a smile that reminds Harry of a fox. “Get the fuck over here,” Zayn says, and Harry’s scrambling into his lap before either of them has the time to blink.

Harry’s pulling off his tee, throwing it aside with his inhibition. “Do you ever take this off?” he asks, grabbing Zayn’s Stetson and trying it on.

“ _¡Dios mío!_ ” Zayn gasps, looking at Harry with that crystal sugar in his eyes. Then his hands are heating up Harry’s skin, and they’re kissing like neither of them has eaten for days. “Your friend’s not gonna show up again, is he?” Zayn’s trying to catch his breath as Harry’s kiss is trailing down his neck.

“He’s my manager,” Harry breathes into his skin. “It’s his job to keep his eye on me.”

“Why do you need a manager?” Zayn asks, pulling at Harry’s hair, wanting to see his face.

Harry throws his head back, securing the Stetson with his hand to stop it falling. It’s not a subject he wants to discuss. He starts to unbutton Zayn’s jeans, can feel him hard beneath his touch, and his desperation to know if Zayn really does taste like nectar is making him fumble. “Fuck’s sake, help me get these off?”

Zayn’s grinning, his fox smile lighting up his eyes as he lifts his ass, then Harry’s grappling with the denim at his hips and pulling. They’re kissing again, and Harry’s head is spinning. It’s like that first taste of beer on the beach. One sip, and he only wants more. He’s slipping to the floor, on his knees, pulling Zayn’s jeans down with him, and the noise that Zayn is making sounds like summer.

***

“You didn’t _yeehaw_ when you came.” Harry’s mumbling into Zayn’s neck, can feel the cowboy chuckling against his chest. They’re stuck together - Zayn finishing Harry off after edging him to the point of mercy. The curses that left Harry’s mouth must have come from the depths of depravity because he’d never even heard them until he started begging.

“But you look so fucking hot,” Zayn kept saying. “I wanna remember it.”

Harry wants to remember Zayn saying those words. The memory of the lust and hunger in Zayn’s voice is making him tingle. He doesn’t want to move. Doesn’t want to break the glue that’s binding them together because for the first time in years he isn’t running on anger or frustration. He isn’t wanting to run, he isn’t wanting to fight. He isn’t grappling to hold on to the side of a cliff, or wanting to jump off the edge of one, but he does want to cling on to this sense of freedom. It’s a temptation, a promise of things that could be. So, he’s keeping hold of the feeling while he can. He’s packing it up into a box in his mind, wrapping it in brown paper, and tying a red bow the size of New Mexico around it. He can carry it with him wherever he goes. He whispers, _“I wanna remember it.”_

And then the moment’s gone.

“FUCK. Harry, get up! it’s time to go!” The urgency in Zayn’s voice, in his hands, throws Harry off balance.

“What the fuck?”

“Someone’s coming!” Zayn shouts, and Harry’s confusion must be painted on his face in neon light. “IT’S NOT MY TRUCK!” Zayn screams.

“Oh, Jesus.” Harry’s up. “You’ll get us shot!” He’s up and scrambling off his seat, his jeans hanging half-mast around his legs, and he’s tripping up over his clown-sized feet.

Zayn’s still shouting. “Get out that side and fucking hide. Harry, go! Go, GO!”

Harry’s going. He’s fucking going. He’s pulling the handle and his body is tumbling down towards the ground. Picking himself up, he starts hobbling towards the front of the truck. He doesn’t have time to fasten his pants because there’s running, shouting - _you homo cunt! I’ll strip your ass!_ \- and then the crack of gunshots pealing off into the distance.

Harry’s cowering in a ditch at the roadside, trousers hanging off his hips, and spitting out the Texas bluebells that are sticking to his lips, and he wonders, is this the worst situation he’s ever been in? There’s a chance, if he gets caught, that he’ll be in trouble with a neon T. He’s had fans try to track him down, even gone so far as to stalk him, and there was that one time he arrived home to find a girl in tears on his doorstep. But he was never in danger. All she wanted was a hug, to tell him she loved him _more than Justin_ , and to have Harry tell her that he loved her too. She didn’t want to stick a rifle up his ass and pull the trigger.

His senses are firing on overdrive, there’s glitter in the sky, and he can hear the earth around him sigh. The cursing and scamper of footsteps is fading, and then there’s silence except for the thump of his heartbeat, reverberating in his ears. Is he safe yet?

He hears a _yeehaw_ echoing in the night and starts to giggle. _I wanna remember it_ , he thinks, and maybe he’s losing his mind because he’s lying on his back on a southeast Texas roadside, naked from the waist up, and counting shooting stars to calm his breathing and stop from screaming. He’ll wait an hour then go back to the van. He won’t be telling Jeff what happened, this is one of his secrets. 

There’s never any reason for anyone to know about the time Harry Styles spent with _el asombroso vaquero._


End file.
